


Days Passing By

by milestofu



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Time Travel, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 01:03:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19140475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milestofu/pseuds/milestofu
Summary: For the better part of a year, Nero's been trying his best to deal with the emotional aftermath of Dante leaving him behind atop the Qliphoth. He was doing a damn good job at coping until nineteen-year-old Dante showed up.





	Days Passing By

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say for myself.
> 
> All I wanted to do was write DMC3 Dante and DMC5 Nero interacting and once I started I couldn't stop. This took me nearly two months to finish and I hope it isn't too terribly out of character or anything since this is my first foray into the fandom. Please heed the warnings, but really, if you're reading Dante/Nero, nothing in here should surprise you except Dante's less than stellar choices if anything. There is some mentioning of a past relationship between Nero and Kyrie.
> 
> Also, this is part one of a two-part series, the second part not yet written, but both are able to be read standalone. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Alcohol abuse, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and incest.

Nero expects Dante's return to go something like this: Dante showing up at Devil May Cry unannounced, smelling like death itself because he hasn't showered, and pretending as if he hadn't just returned from being stuck in the Underworld with his semi-estranged brother. It's for this reason Nero's not surprised to see Dante stride in like he owns the place—which he does, so _fair_ —from where he's sitting at the desk, doodling on a sticky note pad as a woman yaps away into his ear over the phone about a potential job for him.

 _Except,_ Nero realizes, _something isn't right here._

Dante is far too young as he stops just past the threshold of the entryway. He seems thrown off by his surroundings, and when he notices Nero, there's no recognition to be found, which is, well, _alarming_. He kind of looks like he's seen a ghost, actually.

"I'm gonna have to call you back," Nero says into the receiver and hangs up before the woman on the other end has a chance to respond. He never wrote down her number.

To Nero, he _smells_ like Dante; his aura _feels_ like Dante, if not weaker than Nero's used to, and while the former is easy enough to fake, as are appearances in their line of work (thanks, _Gloria_ ), some things aren't, the latter included, along with how he's making Nero's blood resonate in the way only Dante, or someone closely related to him, is capable.

It goes both ways, Nero has learned, and there's no way Dante isn't picking up on it.

Dante is the first to speak, asking, "Who are you?"

"Could ask you the same thing," Nero says, barely able to keep from flinching, because ouch, that didn't hurt him or anything. Aside from Dante being _slightly_ off to all of Nero's senses, human and otherwise, sight the most jarring, there's no way this _isn't_ Dante, and if it isn't, it's a very convincing fake.

Nero's in over his head.

It's obvious he's said the wrong thing when Dante's already guarded expression closes off further. Dante's fingers twitch, nearly reach for Ebony and Ivory which are holstered on his back. Nero's thankful for his restraint since the last thing he wants is for this—whatever _this_ is—to devolve into a fight.

"Listen, I'm having a bad enough week as it is," Dante says, the understatement of the century for some reason, "but I don't have the time or patience to deal with squatters who like to redecorate while I'm gone."

"Squatter, huh? Here I thought you'd be happy I kept Trish and Lady from wrecking the place," Nero replies and there's barely masked confusion on Dante's face now, and Jesus Christ, he looks so _young_. "Hey, quick question, how old are you?"

Dante's apparent confusion worsens before there's something else in his expression—a flicker familiar to Nero. "Hasn't anyone told you it's impolite to ask someone's age on the first date?" Dante asks, and yeah, Nero saw that coming.

"Thank God this isn't a date then," Nero says. "I'd rather die."

Dante's lips quirk upward, and then, "Birthday's in August. Turned nineteen."

Oh, fucking _hell_.

 

***

 

Nero calls Trish, unsure of what to do with nine-fucking-teen-year-old Dante. His first call would've been to Lady if the last thing he'd heard hadn't been she's out of town taking care of an alleged rampant demon infestation at a mine where unsuspecting and underpaid workers were getting their insides and outsides torn to shreds.

After Lady, Trish is the next best thing, and she picks up on the second ring.

Said next best thing is currently enjoying this more than she should. Nero watches as Trish fawns over Dante, tries to touch him, obnoxiously pinch his cheeks; she's rebuffed by Dante who moves out of the way and sends her a withering look. She's unbothered at being given the cold shoulder, and even more so when he says some less than friendly things to her.

"I forgot how moody he could get," Trish says wistfully and talking about Dante as if he isn't standing _three feet_ from her. "It's been a long time."

"It's him, then?" Nero has his suspicions; he wants to be _sure_. "I'm not going crazy?"

"No more crazy than you already are, kiddo," Trish says and Nero glares at her. "Yeah, it's him alright," she confirms. "Not sure how… but it is. Besides, out of everyone, you'd be the one to know."

Nero assumed as much and regards Dante who has moved from the threshold to stand by one of the walls. Without really thinking, Nero's eyes travel downward to the exposed skin of Dante's collarbone, to his chest covered only by a thin holster strap, and _honestly_ , who forgoes wearing a shirt under their coat? Fashion isn't Nero's area of expertise but even he can recognize absurd fashion statements when he sees them.

(Don't get him started on Fortuna's hoods and cloaks.)

Dante shifts, the muscles in his stomach flex. It startles Nero, makes him look back up to find Dante staring at him, the beginnings of a smirk on his face. Nero nearly breaks his neck with how fast he looks back to Trish. As it turns out, Dante has no idea who she is, has said as much, and seems put off by her presence judging by his (mostly) unwarranted hostility.

"I thought he'd at least recognize you," Nero says and damn if he isn't disappointed. "Haven't you guys known each other forever?"

The past isn't something any of them have talked about at length; even still, Nero's heard enough stories over the years to understand Dante, Trish, and Lady have been friends a long time. Unfortunately, forever for Dante and Trish doesn't start at nineteen but it might for Dante and Lady because Nero did notice him perk up at the mention of her name.

"Pretty damn close," Trish says. "We hadn't met yet. Haven't met yet."

How unnecessarily confusing.

Nero wants to sigh—none of this is making any sense, and yet, if there's one thing he's certain of, it's that standing over there, still _smirking_ at him, the smug asshole, is Dante, somehow. Nero's consoled by the fact Trish is also at a loss at how this could've happened.

"So," Dante drawls, and here we go, "you two going to keep talking about me like I'm not here, or…?"

It takes every last shred of Nero's willpower to keep from rolling his eyes. Dante's always gotten a kick out of riling people up, never to the point of anger, but enough to start shit, and this time is no different, and it makes Nero want to punch his teeth in.

He refrains.

"What, something to say, old man?" Nero asks, the nickname slipping out on reflex before he can stop himself. He pauses, because while the nickname is usually appropriate, right now it isn't since he's _technically_ older than this Dante by a few years.

It's giving him the world's worst headache.

(And heartache.)

"'Old man?'" Dante repeats and has the gall to sound offended. "Hey, don't go around acting like you aren't rocking the white hair, too."

It takes a second for the words to register, and when they do, Nero barks a laugh in disbelief—Dante thinks the nickname is a dig at his _hair color_. Trish snickers and pats Nero on the back hard enough he staggers forward a step, the oxygen knocked from his lungs. She reaches to ruffle his hair and Nero ducks out of the way and swats at her hand much like Dante had earlier.

"Anyway," Trish says, turning to Dante, "any idea how you've somehow managed to pull off time travel of all things? Perform any sketchy demon rituals recently?"

Nero hadn't thought about that.

Dante snorts. "Nope," he says, popping the 'p.' "Gotta admit I'm not entirely convinced this isn't some alcohol-induced fever dream."

The change in Trish's demeanor is immediate. It's like she understands something Nero doesn't. He opens his mouth to ask her what she's figured out but struggles to find the right words. He settles, frustratingly enough, on saying nothing at all.

"Perhaps," Trish says, and then addressing Nero, "I'm going to go give Lady a call. Make sure he doesn't stab himself or something while I'm gone. He's prone to do that when you aren't watching him."

"Wait, what? Isn't Lady—" Nero starts but Trish is already breezing past him and out of the room before he can finish speaking. He wonders, faintly, if this day can get any worse.

"Like your hair, kid," Dante says. Nero flinches, the all too familiar nickname sounds wrong spoken by this Dante, and proves this day can, in fact, get worse.

Wanting to die inside, Nero replies, "That's because you're a narcissist, old man."

Dante laughs and Nero is so _tired_.

 

***

 

Lady turns up a couple of hours later, commanding everyone's attention the moment she enters. Nero wants to ask her how many laws she broke to get here as fast as she did and if she bothered to finish the job she'd been hired to do at the mine.

(He's going to go with "probably not.")

Unlike Trish, however, Dante recognizes her, so this is a good sign, right?

Nero thinks so until Lady shoots Dante in the shoulder. She doesn't flinch at the recoil of her gun nor does her expression change from a deep-set frown. Nero has a hunch her eyes are narrowed in suspicion behind the dark tint of her sunglass lenses.

Dante scowls and doesn't retaliate even though he could; instead, he opens his big fat mouth and asks Lady where she came from and why she has wrinkles. It's a bad move and Lady's gun goes off again, the bullet lodging itself into Dante's thigh. Nero grimaces in sympathy and Dante swears. Bullets are basically pointless against those with devil blood but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt to get shot.

Reaching down, Dante digs his fingers into the fresh wound, fishes the bullet out with blood slicked fingers, and drops it to the floor with a metallic clang. He does the same for the one in his shoulder, no doubt annoyed by the time he's done, peeved at being shot not once, but twice.

"Good news," Nero announces, "he knows who you are."

Lady's finger is still on the trigger when she asks, "How did this happen?"

"No fucking idea. Your guess is as good as mine."

Lady adjusts Kalina Ann on her shoulder and Dante's attention is fixed on her, the lines of his body radiating tension, and is most likely assessing the likelihood she's going to shoot him again. Nero doesn't blame him for being on edge; they all are, after all, and this has been an emotionally taxing afternoon.

Nero asks, "So, what do we do?"

"How about you all get out of my shop and we'll call it even," Dante snarks.

"Yeah," Nero says, and then, "no can do. Sorry."

He's not actually sorry.

(Whoops.)

"We need to find a way to send him back," Lady says, completely disregarding Dante. "Him being here is a mistake."

"Ouch," Dante says, "that's not nice."

"Well, how about you try not traveling to the future next time," Nero says, drawing Dante's attention away from Lady and to himself. Exasperated, Nero regrets saying anything at all. "You don't believe any of this, do you?"

"Can't say I do, even if everything is"—Dante gestures with a gloved hand to their surroundings—"weird."

This is _exhausting_.

Nonetheless, Nero's not surprised to learn Devil May Cry has changed since Dante was nineteen. It'd be strange if it hadn't, honestly. Dante's never been one to put much effort into decorating and doesn't get caught up in the details. If, at the end of the day, the shop is still standing, it's good enough for him.

Who cares if the inside is disorganized?

Nero did and couldn't stand it after taking over in Dante's absence. He didn't move anything around, only cleaned and got rid of the countless pizza boxes left laying everywhere on the floor, the desk, the _stairs_ —anywhere but in the fucking fridge where Nero wouldn't trip over them. It's not as if Dante has any highly held standards of cleanliness like Nero.

Understandably, the disarray quickly drove Nero _insane_.

It's a force of habit, bred from having grown up alone. Back then, he didn't have much, but what he did have he cherished, and made sure to take good care of. As lonely as his childhood was, he believes it taught him good habits which help him in setting a good example for the kids he's helping raise with Kyrie, and by extension, Nico, who's shoehorned herself into their hodgepodge family dynamic.

Speaking of Nico, Nero _probably_ should tell her what's going on, if only because she'd kill him otherwise if he let her miss out on this—and this is putting it nicely—clusterfuck. She'd never let it go, and probably charge him double for everything he needs to buy from her in the future.

"What, Dante?" Nero snaps, his patience running thin, at Dante who hasn't stopped staring at him. "Want me to apologize for picking up your mess? Hard pass."

Trish snorts from where she's sitting on the leather couch. Nero pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezes his eyes shut. Trish hasn't been much help aside from calling Lady and had left Nero to flounder to pass the time between the _then_ and _now_ of Lady's arrival. It resulted in Dante, having smelled the proverbial blood in the water, asking Nero questions he wasn't sure he could answer without fucking up space and time or something.

Nero's low-key never going to forgive her.

Without a word, Lady leaves, the front doors closing behind her with a thud. Dismayed, Nero desperately wants her to come back, to at least tell them where she was going or what she was going to do. She's the thread connecting them together, the only one who has any idea how to navigate this situation, having known Dante at nineteen, unlike he or Trish.

Then, Trish stands, and Nero's suddenly filled with such a profound sense of dread.

"Don't—" Nero starts.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Trish says with a smile and _wink_. Nero openly gapes and she can't possibly be serious—

And like that, she's gone, having followed after Lady.

Nero's never felt more abandoned in his entire life, which is saying a lot considering he was born to parents who didn't want him. He's not going to let Vergil off the hook even if he did seem as surprised as Nero himself to find out about their relationship as father and son.

He holds grudges, alright?

Resigned, Nero wishes none of this had happened. If it hadn't, he'd be on the other side of the city, taking care of the demon the woman from before spoke of over the phone; the pay would've been shit, but it sounded like a quick in-and-out job, making it worth his time and effort.

It was also going to be an outlet for the pent-up irritation Nero's been nursing for the last couple of weeks, weighing down on his shoulders, leaving him cranky enough to snap at Kyrie of all people. He regretted it immediately, has already apologized, Kyrie forgiven him. Regardless, it sucks to be stuck here, and he'd been looking forward to smashing a demon's face in, and as messed up as it sounds, it would've been therapeutic, the blood on his hands.

"Time travel, huh?" Dante asks followed by a drawn-out whistle. Nero offers a noncommittal shrug in agreement. "Crazier shit has happened, I guess. Bathroom still in the same place?"

The tacked-on question catches Nero off-guard. He nods because as far as he's aware, the bathroom has never been moved in any renovations. He must be right since Dante sets off in the direction Nero knows the bathroom to be, and as he does, Nero can't help but notice he's walking perfectly fine despite having dug a bullet out of his thigh (and shoulder) five minutes ago.

The only reminder Dante had been shot at all are the bloodied bullets on the floor.

With a shake of his head, Nero rounds the desk. He'd been standing since Trish arrived, at first between her and Dante as if she'd ever need his protection, and then never bothered to sit back down after. He collapses into the chair which creaks ominously under his weight. He drags his hands down his face and stares upward at the ceiling fan that's rotating slowly in a sad attempt at circulating the stuffy air.

His gaze drops down to the desk, to the sticky note pad resting on worn wood, long since abandoned, and the pen lying beside it. He takes in his drawings: the small geometric shapes, the pair of eyes which don't match despite his best efforts, and on the far-right side of the page, the Qliphoth.

It stretches from the bottom of the page, where its roots begin beneath a line representing the Earth's surface, and all the way to the top where the sky would be. Underneath the line, two stick figures, and above the line, one by itself. It's stupid and he hates himself for drawing it. He tears the page off the pad, crumpling it in his fist and tosses it into the nearby waste bin. He misses, and it bounces off the rim and onto the floor.

None of this is fair; hasn't been since Dante left after telling him to take care.

Nero's about to get up to dispose of it properly when Dante returns from the bathroom. There's an air of cockiness wrapped around him like a blanket, but he's still on guard. It shows with how he's carrying himself, and not helping matters is the fact he hasn't put down any of the weapons he's carrying, whether openly or concealed.

Dante kicks the crumpled-up piece of paper with his boot before leaning down and picking it up. He unravels it, hums, considering.

"Terrible shot," Dante says, and yeah, Nero's had enough of this. "Not a bad artist, though," he says, throwing the paper into the waste bin like Nero had intended initially.

Nero blinks. "Thanks…?"

Dante snorts and makes his way over to the jukebox. He messes with it, presses a few buttons, kicks it once or twice, and what Nero can only describe as a lot of noise and screaming masquerading as music begins to play from the speakers. Nero wants to cover his ears; there's a good reason he never turned the damn thing on—Dante's taste in music is, and always has been, _atrocious_.

"Dude," Dante says, turning to him, "maybe this is the future after all."

"Really?" Nero deadpans. "Never would've guessed."

Dante smirks. "How old are you, kid?"

"Old enough," Nero says, suspicious with good reason. "Why?"

Dante leans up against the jukebox, crosses one leg over the other. He lifts his chin and Nero's never felt more judged in his entire life. He's almost childish enough to stick his tongue out at him in protest— _almost_.

"Well, let's just say you look a lot like me for it to be a coincidence."

With a surprising amount of conviction, Nero realizes he absolutely cannot let Dante find out about Vergil being his father, and the alarm bells ringing in his head, warning him of danger, agree. Dante isn't supposed to know about him until much later during the events that unfold in Fortuna with the Savior.

He has no idea if anything would happen if Dante were to find out early, good or bad, but it doesn't matter because he isn't going to risk it one way or the other—he's seen enough time travel films to understandably be wary.

"What? Never seen someone else with white hair before? It's a trend these days," Nero deflects. He's a terrible liar. "You missed a lot," he says.

He hopes it's enough to keep Dante from prying further.

"If you say so," Dante says, might as well call Nero out on his bullshit. "So, business doing well?"

Nero treads carefully as if he's walking on glass.

"Keeps the bills paid… most of the time," Nero says, and after a moment's consideration, decides it's not too dangerous to add, "Got yourself a mobile branch now."

"Dude, _nice_."

 _Nico,_ Nero thinks, _is going to have a field day with this._

 

***

 

Nico _does_ have a field day with this.

"Ain't he just a darlin'?" Nico takes a drag of her cigarette and blows the smoke in Nero's direction to mess with him.

"Sure," Nero says, waving the smoke away with his hand, "when he's not drunk off his ass and passed out in his own vomit."

It's become a rarity these days.

A couple of weeks have passed since Dante showed up and he's drunk more in that time than Nero has ever seen him drink. Nero isn't sure how quickly Dante, being a half-devil, needs to consume the alcohol to feel its effects so strongly. It must be a lot, though, because the benders end in the shop's liquor cabinets emptied and bottles strewn about every surface.

And without fail, Dante will go out with borrowed money—Nero's already miserable bank account is _weeping_ —and buy replacements or blow it on empty calories at the bar down the street.

Dante isn't all that different at nineteen compared to when he's in his forties aside from the noticeable maturity gap (which isn't saying much, honestly); the drinking, however, is completely out of left field, and as is the staying out late and bringing home whichever woman—or man, Dante doesn't discriminate—caught his fancy. On more than one occasion Nero has been rudely awoken at a godawful hour in the morning to the sound of Dante's conquests.

It's like Dante forgets he isn't living alone, and when Nero confronts him about it the morning after, because what the _fuck_ , he was trying to _sleep_ , Dante brushes him off and evades the question with smartass remarks; he's even told Nero if he cares so much, he should join in next time, and Nero, flustered, told him to shove it.

Needless to say, Nero's sick of it.

Being around Dante is hard; he's the person Nero's missing, and yet, at the same time, he isn't, and it's a lot to deal with. Nero's trying his best, he really is, but it's one thing after another, and watching Dante's less than stellar coping mechanisms in action hurt him in ways he can't even begin to express.

It's less of a hurt, and more of a bone deep ache.

"Oh?" Nico snickers. "I'd like to see that."

"Yeah, no," Nero says because Dante's aversion to sobriety is less amusing and more terrifying. It's worse knowing Dante's self-destructive ass has to work for it. "I don't get it."

"Hm?" Nero inclines her head towards him. "What's eatin' at you?"

"It's just…" Nero hesitates, rubs his nose. "He looks at me sometimes, you know?"

"No, I don't know," she replies, and is _leering_ at him. "Indulge me."

"Not like _that_!" Nero hisses, his cheeks betrayingly, and embarrassingly, grow warm. "He gets this… faraway look in his eyes when he looks at me. I don't like it."

It's like Dante doesn't see Nero—he sees someone else.

(Nero can relate.)

Nico hums and for once, holds her tongue, mulling over Nero's words. She looks from where they stand outside on the front steps of Devil May Cry to where the van is parked on the curb. She takes another drag of her cigarette.

"You really look a lot like your daddy, don'tcha?" Nico asks him. "So you've told me?"

Nero squints. "Yeah? Where are you going with this?"

He'd gone over everything with her when they met up after all was said and done—when he had nothing but a book of fucking poetry to show for what had happened. She wasn't there when Vergil was revived thanks to V, and although Vergil didn't really look anything like V, when two became one—became _whole_ —Nero would've had to been blind to not notice the resemblance between himself and Vergil.

While Vergil and Dante are twins, share a face to a certain extent, born mere minutes apart, there are differences Nero was able to pick up on aside from how they choose to style their hair, and those differences make it obvious Nero is Vergil's son and not Dante's.

"Sounds to me like Dante in there sees him every time he looks at you." Nico jerks her thumb behind them where, last Nero knew, Dante is upstairs, flipping through a borderline adult magazine, and chowing down on two-day old pizza. "They don't always get along, do they? You might as well be Vergil's mini me from what you've told me. Little Vergil Jr.—"

"I get it, I get it, now won't you shut up already?"

He needs her to stop talking.

Nico snickers but does stop rattling off what would've been an increasingly ridiculous list of nicknames. Nero's eyebrows furrow and he… hadn't considered this before, and guilt hits him like a freight train at the thought he could be the reason Dante insists on drinking himself into a drunken stupor most days. He can't look at Nero without seeing his brother, and relations between nineteen-year-old Dante, and _holy shit_ , nineteen-year-old Vergil, must've been strained.

Suddenly, it all makes sense, and they've been having the same problem this entire time.

"What the fuck do I do? I can't change my face."

"Such a shame," Nico says. Nero glares at her. "You could come with me on a few jobs. I've been missin' my demon killin' partner."

Nero thinks about it, and hey, it's not a bad idea. Nico's capable on her own but has always preferred to let Nero do the dirty work. It never bothered him, and besides, it'd be nice to go out and experience what used to be his normal after dealing with how off kilter things have been lately. He'd never admit it out loud, too emotionally stunted, and there's _no way_ he'd give Nico this kind of blackmail, but he's missed spending time with her.

"Aw man," Nero says, his lips upturning in good humor. "That means I'd have to put up with your horrendous driving."

He deserves it when she elbows him hard in the ribs.

"Wouldn't you believe it if I ain't got a job lined up for tomorrow mornin'," Nico tells him. "I was gonna head out tonight. Wanna tag along?"

Nero agrees—he doesn't have anything better to do.

"So, how're you holdin' up?" Nico asks and it catches him off-guard. "I know you ain't Mr. Sensitive," she says, flicking the ash off the end of her cigarette, "but I'm not so blind to not notice you're not a happy camper."

Nero wants to tell her why, there are so many reasons, each and every one revolving around Dante. It'd be nice to get off his chest, but his throat is already feeling tight and talking about his emotions has never been his strong suit. Nico doesn't press him for answers and only after her cigarette is finished and crushed into the concrete beneath her boot do they head inside.

Instead of Dante being upstairs, they find he's messing around behind the bar. Nero hopes Dante isn't about to make himself a drink because his liver could really, _really_ use a break. Dante himself doesn't seem to care as he pulls out a shot glass and an eighty-proof bottle of whiskey, setting both on the bar's glass countertop.

"Hey," Nero says to get his attention, "think you'll be good on your own for a couple of days?"

Dante looks to him, then asks, "Somewhere to be?"

Of course, it isn't a straight answer.

"Someone's gotta keep the lights turned on," Nero says, grouches more than anything else. "I'm leaving tonight assuming you'll be fine by yourself…?"

"Do what you want, kid," is Dante's response, and it'll never not be strange to Nero to be called 'kid' by this Dante—it's not the same, and there's none of the underlying affection which always succeeded in making Nero's heart beat a bit faster behind his ribs.

Even still, Nero's breath does catch.

"Not your keeper, old man."

Dante's shrug signals the end of the conversation, ending like most of their exchanges have thus far—at an arm's length, stilted. Nero is doing his best not to be weird about it but has been failing spectacularly. Dante makes him feel better seeing as he's not on board and never completely relaxes either.

Neither of them are good at this coexisting thing.

(There's too much left unsaid.)

Nero heads to the basement that has become his makeshift bedroom after he'd offered Dante the one upstairs. It was technically Dante's anyway, seeing as it belongs to his future self, and he wasn't going to be a dick about it and keep Dante from sleeping in his own room—in his own _bed_.

When he returns, it's with Red Queen strapped to his back, and Blue Rose holstered on his hip. His navy-blue jacket is pulled on over his shirt which is fraying in places from wear and tear and various nicks from battle. Kyrie's offered to sew it for him, and he really should take her up on her generosity, always so attentive.

Nero tries to ignore Dante's eyes on him but catches Dante's lazy two finger salute as he passes by anyway. Not able to keep from rolling his eyes this time, Nero sets off for where Nico is already outside waiting in the van, smoking another cigarette. He's hesitant to leave Dante behind like this but what's best for them, or himself at least, is space.

He can't take much more of this.

It hurts too much.

 

***

 

Nero has had it up to _here_.

Dante, somehow alive despite his best efforts, hasn't changed at all. Nero's concerned and knows Trish and Lady are, too. He's also pretty sure they know something he doesn't with how sympathetic they are of Dante's behavior, willing to give him a pass, and regard him with disappointed, unsurprised looks instead of telling him to get his act together.

It pisses Nero off to be left in the dark.

He can only take so much before he snaps, and when he does, he corners Trish at the bar where she sits on a stool, hanging around one afternoon while Dante is, shockingly enough, passed out upstairs from a hangover after returning at four in the morning, thankfully without company.

It's the final straw.

"Alright, spill," Nero says, slamming his hands down, and the assortment of glasses and liquor bottles on the shelves underneath the bar rattle, nearly fall over. "What's wrong with him? Why is he acting like this?"

He has an idea after having talked with Nico—nothing concrete.

(Clarification would be _greatly_ appreciated.)

"He's fine," Trish says, unconcerned, and fuck if Nero's going to accept such a bullshit answer.

"No, he's not, and you know he's not!" Nero gestures wildly, frustrated. He hates it when people keep things from him—especially when it's about _Dante_ , who he cares for more than he's willing to admit, in ways he doesn't fully understand. "He's my _uncle_ , Trish! I deserve to know just as much as you do."

Trish's expression hardens. For a brief moment, Nero thinks she might try to deck him; he'd welcome it at this point—a fight would be a good outlet for his anger. However, Trish pulls back, stopping herself from saying or doing something she'd regret later, and sucks in a breath, brushing a lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

"Not so loud," Trish chastises him with no real heat behind her words. "It's complicated."

"I don't care." Nero isn't letting this go. "Is this about Vergil?"

"It's not my story to tell… but yes, this is about Vergil."

"Well?" Nero pries. "What happened?"

Trish heaves a sigh. "Vergil raised Temen-ni-gru in an attempt to break the barrier between the human world and demon world. Dante stopped him and Vergil fell into the Underworld," she says. "To Dante, he might as well have killed his brother."

Nero's heart sinks.

Oh _fuck_.

"He's _mourning_?" Nero hates how the word tastes on his tongue. How it sounds.

"I wasn't around when it happened but from what I've gathered, he didn't take it well," Trish says. "It was hard on him and he spent a long time trying to make himself forget what he'd done before getting better."

"But… he didn't kill him," Nero says, confused, and then insists, "Vergil's not dead."

He can't be dead—it wouldn't make any _sense_.

"No, he's not," Trish confirms, "but for the Dante currently upstairs? He is." Trish places her hand on his forearm. It grounds him, tethering him to the Earth rotating beneath his feet. "Try to see where he's coming from, Nero."

Nero makes a face; shakes his head.

"Yeah, okay."

 

***

 

Nero tries, he really does, but has no idea what it is he can do to make the situation better—not when he's struggling himself and acting as an apparent living, breathing reminder to Dante of what he thinks he's lost, no matter if he's wrong or not. Whereas Dante self-medicates with booze and sleeping around, Nero's solution is to be around Dante as little as possible. He takes Nico up on any job offers and has gone as far to pay Kyrie and the kids a visit in Fortuna one weekend.

(He forgot to have Kyrie fix his shirt.)

It was nice, although brief.

He still has some weariness about leaving Dante by himself despite knowing Trish pops in quite often, not only to check in on them (read: Dante), but also to keep Nero updated on any progress she and or Lady have made on the whole send-this-Dante-back-to-his-time thing, which means Dante won't be entirely alone in his absence.

Besides, Nero knows while Dante may have some fucked-up coping mechanisms, he isn't suicidal and is more than capable of taking care of himself. So, Nero leaves for days at a time, allows himself this reprieve, and barely sleeps in his own bed.

It works like a charm until it doesn't.

"Any reason you're avoiding me?" Dante asks and he's sitting behind the desk, booted feet propped up on worn wood, watching Nero round the pool table, and for once, he's sober. Nero debates ignoring him as he busies himself lining up his next shot with his cue stick.

(He gets the impression he's losing against himself.)

"Huh? You say something?"

Good enough.

"You've got a set of ears on you, kid, might wanna use 'em," Dante says, and it's teasing as much as it is confrontational. Nero regards him, sees Dante's raised eyebrows and decidedly sour expression. "Something I said? I know I have a tendency to run my mouth but come on…"

Nero shifts his hold on his cue stick, rests his folded hands on top of it. He's tempted to lean into it, have it bare all of his weight. Dante's eyes are burning holes into him and he _really_ doesn't want to have this conversation. Alas, he's been too obvious, and backed himself into a corner.

Rookie mistake, honestly.

"No," Nero says truthfully. Dante hasn't said anything particularly upsetting in any of their lack thereof conversations. "I figured you'd want some space. We've been on top of each other since you got here."

Dante hums, cocks his head to the side, obviously not believing a word out of Nero's mouth. He's judgmental in how he upturns his nose, narrows his eyes—always assessing and making Nero feel hot under the collar to be scrutinized so openly.

"Alright, now that the lie is out of the way," Dante says, "want to tell me the real reason? You're a shit liar, dude."

"Dunno what you want me to tell you," Nero says.

"Come on, kid," Dante says, exasperated perhaps, "stop giving me a hard time."

It's the most Dante-like thing he's said, and it reminds Nero of the Dante who's left him behind—the one still in the Underworld, with Vergil, and may or may not be coming back, which is furthest from _okay_. He doesn't want to think about it.

(He doesn't succeed.)

Dante moves then, swinging his legs from their position resting on the desk, the bottoms of his boots hitting the ground with a thud, and rises to his full height, and as petulant as it is, Nero's bitter Dante's taller than him, even at nineteen. Dante crosses the distance between them, gives Nero a onceover, and grabs one of the cue sticks that had been mounted on the nearby wall.

"Let's make a deal," Dante says, gesturing to the pool table. "If you lose, you tell me what I want to know. If you win, you don't have to say a damn thing." He's smirking and it's _infuriating_. "Sound good?"

How fucking ridiculous.

Nero sighs. "You know what— _fine_. Have it your way, Dante."

Dante sets the rack and Nero thinks he probably should've known better than to accept Dante's challenge. He'd only been messing around before, seeing how many balls he could sink in as few shots as possible, and Dante is competitive, and he himself, is competitive, which makes this a recipe for disaster.

"Wanna break, or should I?"

"Go ahead," Nero says, "you'll need the advantage."

Dante grins, amused, and walks around the pool table. Nero steps out of the way, observing Dante as he leans over, his cue stick held between his fingers, and lines up his shot. He promptly sends one of the balls into the far-right pocket with ease.

Yeah, this was a mistake, Nero is sure of it as he forces himself to look away from the exposed skin of Dante's stomach.

"Looks like I'm solids," Dante says. He's unmistakably smug.

Nero's only response is to shake his head.

Dante _destroys_ him and Nero would be mad if he weren't so impressed. Dante knows how to play pool and play it well. He's sunk four out of his seven before missing and Nero's not entirely convinced he hadn't done it on purpose to give him a chance to go. Either way, Nero's determined to at least put up something resembling a fight. His first shot is precise, the cue ball colliding into the ball he'd been aiming for, and it sinks into the nearest pocket.

One down, many more to go.

Dante whistles in appreciation. Nero scoffs, and when his gaze locks with Dante's, something inside Nero stirs, the coals of a budding fire stoked. He swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and proceeds to scratch the cue ball. It's kind of amazing how he managed to fuck up what should've been an easy shot.

Dante laughs at him—fucking _laughs_ at _him_. He pats Nero on the back in a mock apology, his hand trailing upward, and stopping at Nero's shoulder. Nero shudders because it's his right side, and while his arm has miraculously grown back, it's sensitive to touch.

"Lemme show you how it's done, yeah?" Dante's hand is gone from Nero's shoulder and he fishes the cue ball out of the pocket Nero might as well slam-dunked it into.

And just like that, Dante's sinks his remaining solids, followed by the eight ball, winning the game in a landslide victory. Dante says nothing in celebration, only smirks at Nero, taunting. Nero waves a hand in the hair, leans against his cue stick like he wanted to before.

"Yeah, yeah, rub it in."

"Don't be bitter," Dante says and it's the most childish thing Nero's ever heard. "A deal's a deal, kid."

Nero, unfortunately, is a man of his word, but what can he say? He knows whatever questions it is Dante wants to ask will be things he can't answer. He's between a rock and a hard place, and his hands are tied.

Regardless, Nero asks, "What do you wanna know?"

"First"—Dante raises a finger and Nero regrets everything—"why have you been avoiding me?"

"Figured you'd want some space," Nero repeats what he said earlier, although he's been making himself scarce less for Dante's benefit and more for his own. "Not everything I say is a lie, you know," he says.

"Good to know," Dante brushes him off, holds up another finger. "Why do you look like me?"

And there it is, the dreaded question; it's not the first time Dante has asked.

(Both of them know it won't be the last.)

"Does it matter?" Nero rubs his nose. "You keep asking and I'm not going to tell you."

Phrasing it the way he has, Nero's well-aware he's giving away too much; then again, there isn't much he can say to deny what their shared devil blood has said already. Dante has to know the answer, perhaps not the specifics, but wants to hear it from Nero's mouth for some fucking reason.

"It does, yeah," Dante says, "but I think I have an idea anyway."

Nero thought as much.

"Hey, kid…"

"Yeah?"

"No need to avoid me," Dante tells him. "I'm not contagious."

Nero snorts because it's a stupid thing to say. Dante isn't contagious, of course he isn't, it's just difficult to be around him, to talk to him. Nero shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head, and sets his cue stick back up on the wall in its rightful place.

Dante can say he doesn't need space all he wants but Nero knows better than to believe him—not when Dante contradicts himself by drinking until he's incoherent and Nero's face is nothing more than a blur that no longer reminds him of Vergil, someone he'd rather not think about.

At this point, Nero could benefit from doing the same.

Nero's retrieved his weapons and is on his way out when he's stopped by Dante calling out to him—it's not his name, it never is, always "kid." Nero turns to him, to where Dante hasn't moved from where he stands beside the pool table, his cue stick held out in one hand.

"Don't be out too late."

There's something there, written in Dante's body language, in the lines of his face, and Nero can tell Dante's come to some sort of consensus about him.

Shaking off his growing unease, Nero flips Dante off and takes the front steps two at a time. His life has become a mess and he wants nothing more than for everything to go back to normal. However, with how much time has passed with seemingly no change, he's not sure things ever will. It's like this Dante is stuck here in what should be current Dante's place, unable to return to the past or wherever the fuck he came from.

Later, the weight of Red Queen is comforting in Nero's hand as he revs it and slices cleanly through the curve of the demon's spine unfortunate enough to get caught doing something it definitely shouldn't. It begs for its life until its choking on its own blood instead of empty promises.

 

***

 

Nero wakes up in the morning and wishes he hadn't.

It's the one-year anniversary of Dante, along with Vergil, leaving him behind atop the Qliphoth, and it's left him with an unmistakable and profoundly painful heaviness resting on his chest, crushing his ribs, lungs, and heart. Begrudgingly, and not really wanting to move at all, he sits upright, slings his legs over the side of the bed, and presses the underside of his palms to his eyes.

Upstairs is Dante, but not the Dante he wants to meet again.

As much as he wants to hide out in the basement and avoid everything, wallow in his own self-misery, he's not going to—his pride won't allow it. He dresses in something comfortable but presentable, not planning to go out today, and when he reaches the landing, Dante is nowhere to be found, which is par for the course considering Dante is rarely up before noon.

Nero is thankful for this small mercy, even if it's only delaying the inevitable.

Shuffling over to the bar, Nero grabs the first liquor bottle he can get his hands on. He reads the label, squinting at it more than anything else because the words might as well be written in gibberish—he understands none of it.

Fortuna wasn't big on alcohol outside of the religious ceremonies Nero was forced to attend where he'd drink the wine and eat the crackers. His only real exposure to the stuff otherwise came after, when he'd visit Dante, a social drinker (nothing like him at nineteen), and on his travels with Nico.

Even then, he never really bothered with it when offered.

Nero decides now is as good of a time as any to try (relatively) new things. Filling a glass halfway, he brings it up to his nose, only to reel back, his entire face scrunching in distaste. He briefly hesitates, and then downs it anyway.

Immediately, he's coughing, tears welling up in his eyes, his esophagus feeling like it's _burning_ , and what the fuck, it tastes _disgusting_. He glares at the bottle as if it has personally offended him and doesn't notice Dante has sat on one of the barstools across from him on the other side of the bar until he hears the snickering.

If looks could kill, Dante would be dead.

"Little early for drinking, dude."

"Oh, fuck off, like you care," Nero snaps and has no patience to deal with Dante's shit, not when his emotions feel bloodied and rubbed raw, the wound of being left behind stingingly fresh. He's filling the glass again, all the way this time instead of half, when Dante's hand on his arm stops him. "What?"

"Pour me one while you're at it."

Dante is grinning, cheeky, and Nero wants to tell him to fuck off, to pour his own, but complies without argument. He hates the experience more the second time around and is unreasonably irritated by how unbothered Dante is by the burn of the alcohol, and in Nero's opinion, unpleasant flavor.

In fact, Dante seems to have enjoyed it.

"You know, if you're trying to get drunk, you're gonna need a lot more than that," Dante says. "And trust me, I mean _a_ _lot_."

Nero knows as much secondhand from watching Dante's own experiences and the rapidly decreasing amount of money in his bank account. He frowns, guilt reigniting in the pit of his belly.

"Not trying to get drunk," Nero says eventually; he'd considered it before deciding it wouldn't be worth the trouble. "If I ever need pointers, I know who to ask," he adds dryly, actually is that petty, and unimpressed.

Dante's response is to reach across and grab the bottle and refill his own glass. Nero should be the adult, tell Dante to cut it out, but has no motivation to do so—he doesn't have motivation for much of anything these days, and especially not today. He shakes his head, his gaze dropping to his sorry ass excuse of a reflection in the bar's countertop.

He's tired, and alone, and terribly confused.

Nero debates heading back downstairs to try and sleep, maybe when he woke again things would be better. It'd be futile, unfortunately, with how keyed up his brain is, reminding him of everything that has gone wrong, and those important to him who are missing.

It's downright torture to endure.

"So, what's wrong?" Dante is resting his chin on the palm of his hand. His eyebrows are raised, and he looks as though he fully expects Nero to just… lay his heart out on the table, like he's some sort of qualified therapist and not holding the scalpel. "You're always huffin' and puffin' about my drinking but here you are drinking at"—he raises his other hand, glances at his bare wrist—"nine in the morning."

"Yeah," Nero says agreeably enough, and then, "I'm not having this conversation."

He's in the process of walking away, of retreating back downstairs because he can't do this, when there's the sound of the wooden legs of the barstool scraping against hardwood and Dante's on him, pushing him bodily against the nearest wall, shelves and picture frames rattling from the force behind it.

At first, Nero feels nothing, and then red colors his vision.

He shoves Dante off of him or, at least, tries to with how his arms are pinned. Dante grunts but otherwise doesn't move, standing his ground. Nero jerks his head up, ready to beat the ever-living shit out of Dante, when the fight drains from his limbs because instead of nineteen-year-old Dante standing in front of him, it's the right Dante—the one with stubble dusting his jaw and his hair parted down the middle.

Nero blinks, and he's gone, and _oh_ , that hurts.

"Don't fuckin' touch me," Nero says—chokes on his words, with how the syllables get caught in his throat. He's practically shaking, from anger maybe, or emotions too complicated for him to process in a healthy manner.

Life is so fucking _unfair_.

"Come on, dude, why are you being—"

"If you say difficult, I swear—"

"—such an asshole?" Dante finishes and something about it resonates with Nero so strongly. He slumps against the wall, his eyes beginning to burn. "Shit," he hears Dante say, followed by, "I'm so bad at this sort of thing…"

Nero laughs, although it comes more so from a place lacking any real humor. Dante's never been the best at the whole comforting thing, has a history of dancing around topics of conversation where difficult things need to be said (e.g. Dante being his _uncle_ , knowing, and not saying a word).

Now, Nero can do nothing but struggle with this resigned, helpless sadness, and before he can convey this to Dante, tell him why he needs to back off, Dante's kissing him. It takes a second for it to register—Dante's morning breath, his aftershave, the warmth of his lips—and when it does, Nero pulls back harshly, his skull connecting hard with the wall directly behind him.

His head throbs painfully; he pays it no mind.

There's an intensity in Dante's eyes and Nero's thoughts are racing, his heart beating wildly, and he doesn't know what the fuck is going _on_ , and yet, the lingering sensation of Dante's lips on his own feels like he's found the missing piece of a puzzle he's been unable to solve.

Suddenly, Nero realizes why Dante leaving him behind hurts him as much as it does—these feelings, unbeknownst to him, have been festering for years, and he recognizes them for what they are now: affection, endearment— _love_ , and they scare the shit out of him, especially when this Dante, still oh so wrong, is pressed against him.

(He's a wannabe lover scorned.)

"No," Nero says, his breathing quickening, "we're not doing this."

Undeterred, Dante asks, "Why not?"

"Jesus Christ, Dante," Nero says, exasperated and overwhelmed all at once, "you can't solve everything with a quick fuck." It's a low blow but the panic is beginning to set in. "You don't _understand_."

"Make me understand."

"I can't," Nero says. "I can't and you know I can't."

"Only because you won't tell me—"

"Has it ever occurred to you that there's a reason for it?" Nero interrupts, defaulting to anger, and instead of _practically_ shaking, he _is_ shaking. "When is it going to get through your thick skull—"

"It has and I don't _care_ ," Dante says, his expression kind of manic. He presses Nero harder against the wall until the drywall bends inward; the strength behind it would break a normal human's ribs and spine. "You can't tell me you don't want this," he says. "I've seen the way you look at me."

No, no, _no_ —

"It doesn't matter what I want," Nero says, has only barely begun to recognize his feelings for what they really are, and manages to shove Dante away this time. Dante stumbles back a few steps, and frustratingly enough, doesn't lose his balance. "You don't get it!"

("You don't get it!"

"Lemme guess, I'm dead weight? You can shove that—")

"Then make me understand," Dante repeats.

Dante makes it sound so easy when Nero has no idea how the fuck to tell him they're related, and that for his entire life, he's felt alone, the bonds he formed with Kyrie and Credo solid but at the same time paper-thin, and after seventeen years, when he, Dante, showed up out of nowhere, and executed the fucking _pope_ , Nero didn't feel alone anymore.

How is he supposed to say any of that?

Nero feels something he cannot put into words for Dante; it started as a kinship, fledgling in the beginning, and morphed over time, or maybe it always has been this underlying livewire stretching between them, deadly to the touch. This Dante wouldn't understand—Nero isn't sure the Dante missing would understand either, because having feelings for your uncle isn't something you should have.

Maybe in the next life he will be forgiven.

"And how am I going to make you understand?" Nero is tired and defeated. "Not everything is black and white."

"No shit," is Dante's response. "Yeah, things are messed up, and I'm here, somewhere I shouldn't be, but there has to be a reason, right? Why not make the most of it?"

Nero has a million and one reasons why they shouldn't.

He voices none of them.

"You want this as much as I do," Dante says.

"Yeah, and how much do you want this, Dante? You don't even _know_ me," Nero replies and it hurts to say it out loud because Dante _should_ know him, from front to back, and all the pages printed in-between, the handwritten notes inside the margins.

"More than you think," Dante says, adamant, and his mouth opens briefly as if he's about to say something else. He shifts his weight onto one leg, runs a hand through his hair, and is he… nervous? "More than you think," he says again, and there's an acknowledgement there Nero wishes wasn't. "So, instead of getting wasted, which I'm all for, by the way, we can help each other out."

"I'm not going to be another fucked-up coping mechanism for you—"

(Wow, tell him how you really feel, Nero.)

"It doesn't have to mean anything," Dante says and Nero nearly tells him it'd mean too much before he stops himself. "I'm not… a replacement for him, and I don't want to be," he says, and Nero blinks, the realization Dante's talking about himself, of who he grows up to be, hits him with the subtlety of a slap to the face. "We can forget for a little while."

Nero's resolve crumbles, slips through his fingers like sand.

"Forget, huh?" Nero shakes his head and Dante takes the opportunity to crowd his space. He hasn't made the move to touch Nero but he's close enough he could, the possibility there. "You really think that'll help? Forgetting?"

"Dude, it's been working good enough for me so far."

It really hasn't, and Nero snorts, thinking of the drinking, the women, the men. None of them should be considered "good enough" by anyone's standards, and yet, Nero is considering Dante's offer. He'd be lying to himself if he said there wasn't something inside him which stirs when he looks at Dante. If there's anything Dante's good at outside of demon killing, it's charming others, and Nero is… less than adept in dealing with that sort of thing.

He's had experience with Kyrie which lasted as long as it did out of convenience and stubbornness than actual romance. Kyrie was more of a friend to him than a partner he could see himself spending the rest of his life with. Kyrie was understanding, expressed similar feelings she'd been harboring, and their breakup was amicable; it was like a weight had been lifted, and they remained close.

Up until the events of the last year, Kyrie had been the only person he truly considered family, and whether or not they're dating was never going to change that.

(His family, however, has since expanded.)

"This isn't a good idea," Nero says, and damn if this isn't is last defense.

"Doesn't have to be a good idea so long as you enjoy yourself," Dante replies, and wow, Nero's going to take back the whole charming thing. He doesn't advance on Nero even though all it'd take is one touch for Nero to jump down the rabbit hole.

Nero sighs, and with some hesitancy, "You sure know how to sweep a guy off their feet, don't you?"

Dante grins, all teeth, and then he's pressing their bodies together, kissing him again. Nero returns it, as uncoordinated and inexperienced as he may be, and a sense of everything coming together fills him—a sense of coming _home_ , a place he never knew, familiar all the same.

As much as Nero doesn't want this to stop, he worms a hand between the lack of space between their bodies, and presses it to Dante's chest, pushing him back. Dante complies, his eyes half-lidded, and lips shiny and wet and yearning to be swollen, and Nero finds he's more than willing to fulfill that wish.

"We're not doing this where someone can walk in on us," Nero says, and he means it.

His face is already warm, an embarrassed flush coloring his cheeks. He's not letting wherever this is leading to happen at the fucking bar. He has more self-respect than that, or something.

"Mood killer," Dane says followed by him taking a step back and spreading his arms. "Thankfully, I got a room upstairs with a king-sized bed. You in?"

Nero is _definitely_ taking back the charming thing.

"Lead the way, Romeo," Nero says.

Dante does, and is enough of a little shit to swing his hips in the process. Nero pretends not to notice, and with each step of the stairs, instead thinks of countless ways this could backfire, time travel fuckery notwithstanding, and yet, as he steps into what used to be his bedroom, now Dante's, he throws all of his reservations out the window.

He's going to let himself have this, even though he shouldn't.

The door is barely closed before Dante is pushing Nero against it, the doorknob digging painfully into Nero's back at an odd angle. He grunts, and Dante's hands are on his shoulders, his right shoulder obviously included, fingers curling into his skin through the fabric of his shirt, and Nero's entire body gives an involuntary shudder, the touch is amplified in his brain, painful to an extent.

Nero reaches up, fingers digging into Dante's scalp, grinding his hips against Dante, who swears into his mouth. His breath smells and tastes like stale beer and bitter liquor and Nero loves it as much as he hates it. He needs this, and somehow, they were always going to end up here, their fates intertwined and drawn to this point.

Dante pulls back, and there's a fire in his eyes, in the way he doesn't fully close his mouth. His lips are reddened, not from swelling, no, but bloodied from an already healed cut Nero caused when he'd been too rough, used too much teeth in his eagerness.

Nero's mouth tastes like copper pennies as he asks, "Something on my face?"

Dante shrugs, tugging him forward, and Nero is almost difficult enough to give him a hard time. He ignores the impulse and allows Dante to manhandle him since he has an idea where this is headed. He's proven right when he's pushed backwards onto the bed Dante has left unmade and it's a stark contrast to Nero who always makes his own after waking (today an outlier; he didn't have the energy).

Sitting at the edge of the bed, Nero watches Dante unclasp several buckles before he's able to take off his jacket and toss it on the nearby dresser, and in doing so, knocks something off the dresser, which clatters to the floor. Nero barely hears it, distracted by Dante's toned chest and stomach being so… _there_.

Suddenly, Nero is self-conscious of his own body.

He doesn't have anything to worry about, doesn't think so anyway; his fitness level has never been an issue, he's even bulked up in recent years thank to the athleticism involved in demon hunting, but in front of him is Dante, and an unwelcome voice in the back of his head tells him he'll never compare.

He's given no opportunity to dwell on his budding negativity because Dante is on top of him, pressing him into wrinkled sheets, filling his space, his senses—his _everything_ , and the moment Dante's mouth is on his, Nero can think of nothing else but how good it feels, and how he never wants it to end, even if it means never breathing.

It's pure bliss, Dante's body against his own. His brain kind of, sort of short circuits when Dante's hand snakes between them, cupping his half-hard dick in his hand, skin-to-skin separated only by fabric. Nero chokes on a gasp, his head tilting back, the kiss breaking.

" _Dante_ ," Nero says his name like a prayer.

Dante moves down, kissing the curve of Nero's throat. Nero sucks in a breath, and anticipation, fear, and God knows what else pull his muscles tight. It's a new experience, this closeness, this warmth, and he's unbelievably overwhelmed; this is different from what he'd shared with Kyrie, his only point of reference, and different in the way it sets all of his nerve endings alight.

And then, Dante's wordlessly undoing Nero's pants, his hand slipping beneath the waistband of Nero's boxers, and there's no fabric in-between. Nero groans and it takes every last scrap of his frayed willpower to not thrust upward into Dante's fist.

He's wanted this so badly.

Dante laughs, or at least it sounds like a laugh, his breath warm against the skin of Nero's neck, and says something Nero doesn't quite catch. Dante is slow about it, leisurely in his strokes, and it does little in staving off the building fire inside of Nero. He's not going to last long like this, embarrassingly enough, and he _is_ embarrassed.

"Dante," Nero says his name again, "I'm not… gonna…"

It's a warning; a desperate plea.

"I know," Dante tells him, and there's arrogance in his voice Nero would be irritated by if he weren't preoccupied. "Let's not stop the party before the good part, though," he says, and after another, firmer tug, he lets go and removes his hand.

Nero nearly lifts his hips in an attempt to chase the touch.

Oh, how he has fallen.

"Wanna ride you," Dante says.

It's like a bucket of cold water has been dumped on Nero's head. His eyes grow wide in alarm. Dante definitely does laugh this time, throaty and rough, and borderline a cackle. He sits back, making himself at home on Nero's lap, his knees bracketing Nero's hips.

Pushing himself up on his elbows, Nero is beyond glad he made them move from the bar to the bedroom. He'd never live it down if a client walked in on them, or worse, Trish or Lady. His face burns to even think about something like that happening.

"Oh, come on, kid," Dante says. "Don't tell me you're a virgin."

"I'm not," Nero defends because he _isn't_. "I've never… with a guy before."

(It tastes like a lie on his tongue.)

"So basically a virgin," Dante says cheekily, and before Nero can protest, because _no_ , that's not how this _works_ , "I suppose I can lead you through it." It sounds as though he's offering to do Nero a favor. "Do you trust me?"

"No," Nero replies but underlying is a 'yes.'

Dante "tsks" and climbs off Nero's lap a moment later. Nero self-hatred intensifies with how immediately he misses their proximity. Dante opens the bedside table drawer, sifting through its contents until he's holding a small bottle and shaking it in Nero's direction.

Nero rolls his eyes and is not so oblivious or inexperienced that he doesn't know what a bottle of lube is. Give him a fucking _break_.

"First things first," Dante starts, setting the bottle down, "you're way too dressed."

Nero disagrees, feeling underdressed if anything, his anxieties and insecurities at the forefront of his mind. Like a knight in shining armor, Dante saves Nero, kissing him as if their lives depend on it, and his hands hold Nero's head in place with a gentleness Nero didn't know this Dante was capable of with how rough around the edges he is—cracked, split open, and _broken_.

It reminds Nero of himself.

Closing his eyes, Nero focuses only on the warm press of lips, and doesn't stop Dante when his hands move downward, snake beneath his shirt, touch bare skin. Dante doesn't try to take off Nero's shirt, mapping out the hard and soft curves of Nero's stomach instead, the V-shape of his hips, and only after doing so does he push Nero's shirt up.

In response, Nero maneuvers his arms, unfortunately having to cut the kiss short to allow Dante the ability to pull the shirt up and over his head. When their eyes connect, Nero sees nothing but undisguised hunger in Dante's expression, and oh, the building fire inside of Nero has turned into an uncontrollable inferno doused in gasoline, threatening to burn or suffocate everything in its path.

Nero's blood is _boiling_.

Dante balls up his shirt and tosses it onto the floor. Nero is offended because honestly, when was the last time the floor had been cleaned? Nero certainly hasn't been up here to do it since up until this morning, he'd been doing a damn good job at avoiding Dante, who he knows wouldn't have bothered to sweep the floor, nonetheless break out a mop.

Taking a step back and straightening, Dante undoes his fly, and holy _shit_ , he's not wearing anything underneath. Nero's entire body flushes, and he finds himself looking up at the ceiling, unable to look. He hears Dante hop on his feet, apparently having some difficult in taking off his leather pants, and _ha_ , that's what he deserves for wearing what has to be at least one size too small.

"Embarrassed is a good looking on you, kid."

Predictably, Dante's teasing him.

"Yeah, well, someone has to have some shame here," Nero says, his voice lacking any of his usual bite.

He'd love to see Dante embarrassed, though. He's seen Dante caught off-guard, even startled at times, but he's always maintained an air of laidback nonchalance, never taking anything too seriously, and although this Dante is different in ways, this has remained a constant.

It makes Nero wonder if the Dante currently in the Underworld would be embarrassed to learn about what is happening here. Nero will cross all of his fingers and toes if it meant that Dante would never find out. He hopes maybe, if he gets this out of his system, everything will be okay, and he'll be able to move on from these newfound feelings which may have always been there, brought to the surface by an inescapable loneliness, and exacerbated in recent months.

"I have shame," Dante says and Nero is hard-pressed to believe him knowing he's stark naked without a care in the world. "Sometimes," he adds. "Come on, dude, who cares about that when we can both not have shame together?"

Dante's sweet talk does nothing for Nero, but it does make him look down from the ceiling. He catches a glimpse of Dante's cock, all of the heat inside Nero's body rushes south all at once, and then Dante is straddling him, this time his fingers hooked in the belt loops of Nero's pants. He tugs him forward and this must be Dante's way of telling him he should take them off since they're now, officially, in the way.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Nero with shaky hands makes quick work of taking off his pants. Unlike Dante, he's wearing boxers, which leave nothing to the imagination despite how loose fitting they are. It isn't like Nero needs to worry about something like that, not when Dante's hand has already been wrapped around his dick.

Dante helps the process along, pulling Nero's pants along with his boxers down the length of his legs, and discards them on the floor. Understandably, Nero feels exposed, and much colder than he was before, and yet, as Dante regards him, as appraising as he is predatory, Nero doesn't feel judged at all.

However, he isn't sure where to go from here. He has an idea of how things will progress but has never done it himself, which is as intimidating as it is arousing, and as Dante stands in front of him, inadequacy is starting to creep up on him. Dante's perceptive, though, even at nineteen, and is soon telling him to scoot back before can get lost in his own head.

Nero complies, pushing himself back as Dante picks up the bottle from where it had been left on the bedside table. Dante moves over to him with all the subtly of a big cat hunting its prey, and it really is overwhelming, Dante being this close.

Dante asks, "You wanna help, or should I?"

"No," Nero says, then quickly corrects, "Lemme help."

With a sly grin, Dante says, "Such a gentleman."

With how worked up Nero already is, it flusters him further. He supposes if Dante wants to think of it that way, then yes, sure, he's a _gentleman_. Nero disagrees, and that isn't what this about anyway; he wants to experience this—to _live_ this—in whatever way he can, and over his dead body is he going to sit back and let Dante do all of the work.

"Have at it then, _Romeo_ ," Dante mocks, tossing him the bottle, and wraps his arms around Nero's neck. He's smirking and all Nero can really focus on is how close Dante is. "Give you a hint, it involves your fingers—"

"Shut up," Nero snaps irritably.

Unfazed, Dante does, continuing to smirk at him all the while. Nero flips open the cap of the bottle and wets his fingers. He's generous about it, probably more than he needs to be, and when he reaches around, Dante shifts closer, his dick pressing against Nero's stomach.

Nero sucks in a breath and then eases a finger into Dante.

It's a strange feeling and he still doesn't know what he's doing but must be doing something right because Dante hisses, either at the stretch, or maybe Dante is as worked up as Nero himself is, every touch between them amplified, unable to taper down the electric current coursing between them, shared by the ancestry of their blood.

"Come on, I'm not gonna break," Dante says, stating the obvious. Nero takes the opportunity of Dante's momentary distraction to add another finger. It has the desired effect of Dante groaning, caught off-guard, aborted and caught in his throat, and as fucked-up as it is, Nero's never wanted someone more.

He curves his fingers, spreads them apart, and Dante's panting into his neck. He's pushing back against Nero's fingers, trying to take them deeper inside himself, and fuck, this is becoming all too much for Nero, and at the same time, it isn't enough—he needs _more_.

Dante seems to agree with and tells Nero to stop not long after. Nero does as he asks, his fingers slipping out Dante's willing body, and when Dante reaches down, his hand wrapping around Nero's cock to line himself up, Nero almost comes right then and there.

Dante's eyes meet his, and then, "You good?"

Nero nods; he doesn't trust his voice right now to speak.

Dante sinks down, taking him inch by inch until he's fully seated, and Nero sees stars. He's barely able to keep still with how good it feels, and on some biological level he can't comprehend, he knows with absolute certainty this union was destined to happen.

Nero's hands find purchase on Dante's hips—he has to hold onto _something_ ; has to anchor himself. Dante lifts himself up, halfway, and then sits back down, and the glide is perfect. Nero revels in it, and it's slow at first, languid, going against their very nature basked in violence, until it isn't anymore. It's quick to escalate and Dante's riding Nero like this is what he lives for, like this is what he needs to survive.

"Feels so good," Dante says, his voice breathless, and his movements don't stutter at all. Nero isn't surprised to learn Dante has a penchant for dirty talk, not at this age when he preens at praise, and is a bit arrogant for his own good.

Still, it doesn't turn Nero off at all, no; instead, it makes it better.

(He wonders if the Dante not here acts the same.)

He doesn't catch most of what Dante is saying over his own heartbeat filling his ears, and the distracting feeling of release growing closer and closer. He does hear the word "harder," however, and he doesn't need to be told twice, and they've become nothing more than two bodies moving together, desperately chasing the peak of ecstasy, surrounded by cacophony of skin slapping against skin.

And then, Nero can't hold off anymore, and he barely manages to choke out a warning. They didn't discuss what they were going to do when they reached this point, protection never came up, and what the _fuck_ , how far gone is Nero that it never crossed his mind? He's usually so much more careful.

(Love makes you do crazy things.)

" _Nero_ ," Dante says, and it's the first time he's said his name, those two syllables spoken as if they're the most important thing in the world. "Come inside me," he says, and that's all it takes, Nero's fingernails drawing blood from Dante's hips as he comes hard.

Dante continues to move until Nero has to stop him, too overstimulated, too sensitive. Nero can barely feel he's own limbs as he wraps his hand around Dante dick, jerking him off with no finesse but making up for it with enthusiasm. Dante comes into his fist soon after, and oh, Nero realizes with some clarity in the post-orgasm haziness, sex is _messy_.

He's mildly disgusted by it all.

It felt good in the moment but has now been soured to Nero knowing he's going to be the one to wash the sheets later, which will be a hassle, in addition to taking a shower. Nero hisses then at Dante who decides to take his time rising off of his softened cock.

Dante stretches out on the bed beside him, pointedly away from the mess they've made. His cheeks are reddened, his body sweat slicked, and his hair sticking to his forehead at odd angles. He's never, in Nero's opinion, looked better.

The tension between them seems to have broken, or at least been subdued to a hum, a stark contrast to the screaming which was near impossible to ignore before. Nero's fine with it, has to be, even if he's kind of upset with himself for letting it get to this point. Nero doesn't say anything as he cleans himself off with his shirt which he picks up off the floor.

It's incredibly unsanitary but he has nothing else.

"Shower with me?" Dante asks and is not so much of a slob he's willing to stew in the aftermath of their coupling. Nero's eyes narrow, suspicious of Dante's intentions. Dante's only response, if you can call it that, is to waggle his eyebrows.

"Whatever."

Later, in the warmth of the shower spray, Dante's mouth around his cock, Nero prays to the God he doesn't believe in for forgiveness.

 

***

 

Dante is gone the next morning.

Nero wakes up in Dante's bed, having let himself be convinced into sharing (what is one more sin after so many?), and where Dante should be beside him, there are cold sheets. Nero initially considers the possibility Dante's downstairs, or at the bar down the street, but something inside Nero tells him that isn't the case, and after Nero searches the entirety of Devil May Cry, he finds no sign Dante had ever been there in the first place.

It's incredibly painful; he doesn't let himself cry frustrated tears.

This has to be the universe's way of punishing him because he hasn't suffered enough already. He deserves this, somehow, and that doesn't make it hurt any less. He sits behind the desk, cradling his face in his hands, and struggling to catch his breath.

Oh, how cruel all of this has been.

He misses Dante even more now, might as well miss him twice over, which makes no sense to anyone except his bleeding heart. It isn't fair how just when they were beginning to understand one another, to talk more than brief sentences, Dante had been taken from him.

None of this is _okay_.

Nero slams his hand on the desk and there's the sound of wood cracking. He looks down in dismay at the indent he made and the large spidery cracks splintering outward from the center. It's not ruined by any means but it's another thing Nero's going to have to fix.

At least this he can fix, unlike other things.

The front doors open then, and when Nero shifts his attention upward, ready to tell whoever it is that they're closed today, _forever_ at this rate, his heart might as well stop because standing on the dingy welcome mat is Dante—the right Dante, and behind him, Vergil, and yes, from where Nero's sitting, Dante does smell terrible.

"Hey, kid," Dante greets him, smiling. "We've got a lot to talk about."

Nero has the feeling he's missing something.

(He doesn't care.)


End file.
